


The Shadow of Kallia

by shadow_lover



Category: Original Work
Genre: Conflict of Interests, Diplomacy, Dragons, Enemies to Lovers, First Kiss, Fish out of Water, Flirting, M/M, Nobility
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-07
Updated: 2017-08-07
Packaged: 2018-12-09 06:05:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11663160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadow_lover/pseuds/shadow_lover
Summary: Lyris has not rehearsed for this. He looks out into the garden. He says, when the silence has lingered too long, “I’m not here to dally, my lord.”Sir Godric’s smile falls, and he seems to see Lyris for the first time. “No,” he says quietly. “I don’t think you are.”





	The Shadow of Kallia

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Alley_Skywalker](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alley_Skywalker/gifts).



> Thank you for providing such wonderful prompts! I hope you enjoy the resulting fic.
> 
> And thank you to [tba] for brainstorming and betaing.

The hall is crowded with Kalliad courtiers, in hose-clad calves and delicate slippers that wouldn’t last a minute in an Edisan autumn. As Lyris enters, he can’t help but see past the flowers and silk banners. The walls are stout stone, the windows high and narrow. On his arrival last night, he rode through three rings of walls before even reaching the great keep itself. The last siege of Kallia Castle had been fifty years ago, and the Faian forces only ever breached the first ring.

Before he left Edis, his queen warned him of the beguiling gentleness of the south. Lyris thinks he will not soon forget he is on unfriendly ground. He knows no one here—even the aides flanking him were hired by the previous ambassador. Nelory has been here one year, and Denis two, and each had served at other posts for years before. Lyris senses they disapprove of him. He is young, and this is his first appointment.

Lyris itches in his new clothes. They aren’t entirely Kalliad style, as he wants to stand out as clearly Edisan. His doublet clings tightly to his ribs, as is the fashion here, though it is dark green and gray, near-black, instead of the bright colors the Kallians favor. He keeps his familiar narrow sleeves of Edis, for he thinks the sweeping undersleeves of Kallia will only end up in his soup at supper. And he has to adjust to hose and slippers instead of breeches and boots.

His arrival is not the only matter at hand. The heralds call up select common petitioners as the first order of court. Then there are other arrivals to be greeted. Baron Kosma has returned from his western tour along the Faian border, which is a surprise. From what Lyris knows of Kosma’s harvest season, the baron should have been a month longer at least. He files that away. And there is Asher Theron, the queen’s young second cousin, newly seventeen and late to be presented to the court. She was ill last spring. 

It is strange to put faces to the names Lyris has studied all year, in preparation for his post.

When the herald announces Lyris Alara Ren, there is a subtle shift in the court’s low murmur. The name is recognizably foreign, as is Lyris himself—from his darker hair to his narrower features—but he has a habit of blending in. Nobody noticed him until he kneels before the dais, head correctly bowed. He stands, and when Queen Hesper opens her hand and greeted him, he moves closer.

The words are rote: Queen Hesper is grateful for Queen Alia’s friendship, and hopeful Ren Alara will find himself welcome in her court. His replies are rote as well, and he takes the time to observe who stands upon the queen’s dais. He recognizes all the insignia—if not the bearers—except one.

The man to Queen Hesper’s left has red hair, weather-tanned skin, and broad shoulders. He is perhaps in his mid-thirties, and the bridge of his nose is crooked. Across his sky-blue doublet spreads a wyvern’s black wings, like a shadow seen from below, save the flame, which is worked in gold thread. The hilt of his sword is not ornamental.

Lyris does not look long, but it is long enough for the wyvern lord to catch his gaze. Lyris reads something that might be surprise on his face, and then a smile.

He bows once more to the queen, and makes his retreat.

⇼

At the banquet that night, half the men have a rose or spray of lavender pinned to their hair. The women seem to be competing to see who can wear a more glorious garden in their braids and curls. They carry the memory of spring and summer into the fall harvest festival.

It is an auspicious occasion for Lyris’s arrival. He asks about the dahlias spilling over one woman’s shoulder, and then he is swept up into the current of conversation. He can barely keep his head above water, but the plunge is exhilarating.

The accord between Edis and the Kalliad States is two years old and fragile, and Queen Hesper not fond of ambassadors on principle. Lyris’s predecessor warned him thoroughly, as did his queen. But Lyris enjoys conversation, and tonight is easy. Tonight, he has no agenda but charming the court.

After the courses are cleared and the table broken apart and moved, the court strays. It’s nearly midnight, and Queen Hesper has long since vanished. Half the courtiers are to bed. The other half heeds the minstrels, and begins to dance.

Lyris is far too new at court to risk a late-night embarrassment, and either drinking or dancing will certainly result in that. It is time for him to retire. He wishes he had not dismissed Denis and Nelory for the night; he could have used a guide. He mounts the stairs to the second level of the banquet hall, and then takes the next door he sees. 

The door opens not into a hallway, but onto a balcony, scarce large enough for four. It overlooks a garden, and it isn’t empty. 

The man turns at the door, hand on his hilt. His hand falls away as he sees Lyris—and Lyris recognizes him as well. The wyvern lord, his red hair braided back, a glass of wine in his hand, dressed in bright silks that fit him perfectly and suit him not at all. He has no flowers in his hair, but in the torchlight, his eyes are blue as hyacinths

“My apologies,” Lyris says. “I didn’t mean to intrude.”

The lord cocks his head, assessing him, and Lyris can’t tell what he finds. But he moves further along the balcony. “Ren Alara.” His voice is low, warm. The accent is slightly rougher than that Lyris has heard from the other Kallians. “Were you seeking fresh air as well?”

“I was,” Lyris says, though he wasn’t. He answers the silent invitation, and lets the balcony door whisper shut behind him. He sets his fingers on the railing, and leans into the stone, and apologizes again. “Please forgive me, my lord, but I didn’t recognize your crest at court.”

The lord’s teeth flash white. “Is that the diplomat’s way of asking who the hell I am?”

Lyris’s answering grin slips out before he can decide whether or not it’s wise. “Perhaps, my lord.”

“Sir Godric Dalton.” He touches his heart, and inclines his head—a knight’s bow. “And Duke of Flamesreach, as of last month.”

 _Ah._ That explains the unfamiliar insignia. Flamesreach is a mid-eastern dukedom, in the heart of the Kalliad Range. Not much land. Its wealth and significance centers entirely on the wyvern nesting grounds. It has been without a duke for nearly a year, after the Zantors’ disgrace.

Lyris has heard of Sir Godric Dalton, of course. Everyone has. And it is no wonder finery sits poorly on him. This is a man for songs, and steel, and flame. 

“Then congratulations are in order, Sir Godric.” Lyris’s bow is deeper. “And I’ll pass word to Edis that our heraldries are out of date.”

Sir Godric’s grin widens. “Very kind of you. I can see why you’re so popular here already.”

Lyris blinks. “Popular?”

“Not every new ambassador gets such an attentive reception,” Sir Godric says. “I’m not sure who will be more disappointed you’ve left before the dancing—young Lady Asher, or her elder brother.”

Lyris has not rehearsed for this. He looks out into the garden. He says, when the silence has lingered too long, “I’m not here to dally, my lord.”

Sir Godric’s smile falls, and he seems to see Lyris for the first time. “No,” he says quietly. “I don’t think you are. Now—please excuse me. I can’t march all night like I used to.”

“Rest well,” Lyris says, because it’s what they say in Kallia. If he flushes at the intimacy, at least the night should hide it.

“Rest well,” Sir Godric answers, and then pauses at the door. “This castle’s a maze, Ren Alara. The next door to your right will take you to the visiting wing. Flag down a servant to lead you to your room.”

He’s gone before Lyris can muster thanks. Instead, he leans back on the railing, tips his head towards the stars and the vast sweep of stone, and muses.

Sir Godric Dalton, Duke of Flamesreach. A man of battle, newly risen to nobility—the queen’s right hand, elevated to control the Kalliad dragon nests. He is not the most powerful man at court, but he could be, five years from now. He would be a useful friend to have.

Surely that’s why Lyris’s mind is fixed on Sir Godric’s grin, and hair like flames.

⇼

His private audience with Queen Hesper is scheduled a week from his arrival, and it is late. Lyris knows it will be late when he arrives in the antechamber and the inner door is shut, and a guard invites him to sit.

He thanks her and does not sit. While Denis talks quietly with the herald apprentices, Lyris inspects the mural spanning the wall, which depicts the union of the Kalliad States—if that union had been forged by a meadow-ful of men in Dain Era robes. Most importantly, the Dain Era painter has included innumerable small details, from the falcon-topped globe under Queen Lark’s arm to the sleek, four-eared rabbits listening from the hedges. It is easy to feign interest while his mind races to discern what has gone wrong.

The inner door opens, and the guards clatter; Lyris turns at the sound. No herald—instead, Sir Godric Dalton, dressed in sky-blue and the remnants of a scowl.

“I hope you haven’t been waiting long,” he says. “Her Majesty extends her sincere apologies. Her prior meeting has gone past schedule.”

The words are polite, but the lie sits poorly on him. Lyris knows with resounding certainty that he is being slighted.

“I’ve hardly noticed the wait, my lord,” Lyris says, gesturing to the painting. “Will Her Majesty be long?”

“She will.” At least he does not apologize for it. “Her secretary will confer with your aides later to reschedule. But for now—if you have no other plans, Her Majesty suggested you might enjoy a tour of the capital’s rookery.”

“That would delight me, my lord,” Lyris says on reflex, then realizes it’s true. Edis has dragons, of course, but they’re wiry, horse-sized creatures. Only the slightest men and women can ride them. Since Alia Taren’s mother forbade child riders in battle, most are trained to scout and dive alone. The wyverns of Kallia are another beast altogether.

Sir Godric grins. “Then meet me at the front hall in half a bell. I’ll call for horses, and you,” he pauses, gaze sweeping down Lyris with shocking directness, “will want to change back into boots.”

He has left the room before Lyris realizes Sir Godric himself is to play tour guide.

They don’t speak much on the ride into the city. It’s the height of the market day, and the streets are _loud_. Even with the space created by their escort—two of Sir Godric’s men ride before them, and a third guard rides with Denis after—it is too loud for conversation.

The rookery, though, is quiet. The stone structure rises just outside the city walls, nearly as tall as the palace, and bristles with guards who do not stop them. They enter a clean-swept foyer, where they leave their escort.

Sir Godric leads him up a narrow flight of stairs. As he ascends ahead of Lyris, he moves unevenly—the slightest favoring of his left leg. The limp is more obvious by the time they reach the top than it had been at the bottom.

They come out on a walkway circling an immense arena. It is dim, the partitioned ceiling closed, and Lyris pauses, blinking. As his eyes adjust, he takes in the expanse of the room—the great troughs of water lining the walls, the sun-bright outline of the immense door on the other side. A stone walkway splits it through the center, and fades into pale sand on either side, save for wide rough rocky patches.

To his left, a whole swathe of rocky floor moves, and Lyris realizes it is not the floor.

The wyvern rises, sand spilling from it in hissing waves, revealing dark, gleaming scale and folded tapestries of wings. It is huge and sinuous, and its tail sweeps and curls through the sand. Its shoulders rise near as high as the second-story walkway. The heat and bulk of it displaces the very air.

There’s a warm pressure between Lyris’s shoulderblades. Only then does he realize he’s stumbled back, and Sir Godric has steadied him.

Lyris is breathless and grateful for the touch as the massive, sleek head draws near them. His vision fills with gleaming scales and eyes like dark mirrors, each as large as his head, looming nearer.

Sir Godric’s hand drops to the small of his back, a lighter, almost careless touch. He says, voice clear and ringing, “Stay, girl.”

The wyvern pauses, her great muzzle scarcely five feet away. When she exhales, the warm air gusts over them, and ruffles their hair and clothes.

Lyris wonders how much of this sightseeing tour is meant to be a threat. He swallows hard, and catches his breath. “What is her name?”

“This is Larkin,” he says fondly. “She’s one of our eldest—I learned to ride on her, nearly twenty years ago. She’s too old for the border now, so she swaps out between messenger duty here and at Flamesreach.”

“No easy retirement?”

“She's not _that_ old. And they’re like us, in a way. They need something to do. A purpose.”

“She’s incredible,” Lyris murmurs. The word is insufficient. She is a dark, coiling vision of muscle and scale, and he has heard of Larkin: the Shadow of Kallia. Ten years ago, she razed the Field of Iron. That battle did not end the Kalliad-Faian war, but it turned the tide. Here and now, she does not seem constrained by the stone walls; the guards at the doors stand in her service. She could break free at any moment, but chooses not to.

“Rest,” Sir Godric says. It was he who rode Larkin to the Field of Iron. Lyris is struck with the sense that the knight is no less dangerous than the wyvern.

Larkin moves a touch closer, exhales, and seems to consider. Then she returns to the sand. She stalks on wings and haunches to the far edge of the rookery, and settles back down.

Lyris asks, “What is their purpose, when not at war?”

Sir Godric’s jaw tightens. “The same as ours. Preparing for the next one.”

He sounds, suddenly, very tired. So Lyris speaks softer than he might have when he says, “I’d like to live in a world with a different purpose for her.”

“As would I,” Sir Godric says.

Only then does his hand fall from Lyris’s back.

That night, Lyris composes a letter to his queen. He considers carefully, uncertain whether his missive will be read by Kalliad eyes before it crosses the border. He would not have considered it before the meeting was delayed.

In the end, he writes truthfully. He says his audience has been rescheduled. He does not express his concern; Alia Taren or her advisors will understand it well enough. He says he was honored with a tour of the capital rookery, and he describes the wonders he beheld. He tries his best to phrase his warnings as compliments. He signs, _Yours in devotion, Lyris Ren._

He says nothing of Sir Godric.

⇼

The audience, when it happens, goes well. The next goes better. Two months after his arrival, Lyris finds himself in the council chamber, surrounded by courtiers and the portraits of dead warlords. He does not kneel, for today he stands as representative of Edis Taren. He signs a treaty, every word of which he knows by heart, and then watches as the herald carries it to Queen Hesper.

Even after she has signed, Lyris can hardly believe it is done.

It is not a _large_ victory. Less a doing than an undoing. They have lifted the five-year embargo on trade of grain and textiles between Edis and the Kalliad States. There is work yet to do, but today, as the heralds whisk the treaty away for copying and the council spills out into the hallways, Lyris rests his hands on the table, and smiles.

There is an early evening reception. Not a full banquet, but everyone who’s anyone is there. Lyris is elated enough that he allows himself a drink. The wine is nearly too sweet, but he thinks he could get used to the taste. He even has a chance to finish it, in between conversations.

As the evening winds down, Countess Osta and Lady Kassander make abrupt excuses and turn to dance. Lyris doesn’t know why until he hears a low voice behind him. 

“You look happy with yourself, Ren Alara.” 

Sir Godric holds two glasses of wine. Lyris sets down his empty one, and takes the one Sir Godric offers. “I am happy,” he answers. “This will help people.”

“Edisans and Kallians alike.” Sir Godric raises his glass.

Lyris raises his in answer, and they drink. The wine is sweet. It glitters in the torchlight and the late rays of sunlight.

“My chambers are near the western tower top,” Sir Godric says, and his smile glitters too. “The view of the sunset is breathtaking.”

Lyris suddenly knows why Countess Osta and Lady Kassander made their excuses. His mind whirls with next moves and motives—to publicly rebuff the Duke of Flamesreach would be disastrous. To publicly accept him, perhaps more so. To be seen as accessible, susceptible—

Or to prove he can dally without compromising himself. To secure the favor of Flamesreach, and through him, perhaps, the queen. To be pleasant, and attentive, and to learn how matters are at the wyvern nests.

To give into the fluttering under his skin, and the heat in his veins, sweeter than wine. 

“I should like to see that,” he says, and tells himself this is for Edis, and not for Sir Godric’s slow grin.

He catches Nelory’s eye, and signals her not to follow, but Sir Godric has, as always, a three-man retinue. The guardsmen shadow their path from the hall, and Lyris endeavors not to seem aware of the court’s eyes on them. He carries a conversation of the treaty just signed—of a village just north of the border that he visited last spring, and how they might be a perfect trading point, since the river has shifted nearer—

Sir Godric pauses at the tower stairs, and says, “And the new bridge is nearly finished, isn’t it?”

Lyris stumbles. “I hadn’t realized you were that well-informed of Edisan affairs, my lord.”

“It’s a new interest of mine,” Sir Godric says, and continues upwards. “And after all, I can’t serve my country in battle, anymore. The field of diplomacy seems the next best thing.”

“Better, I think,” Lyris says, then curses silently. He’s let the wine go to his head. He’s let the Duke’s smile go to his head. “I apologize. That’s not what I meant.”

“Please, Ren Alara.” They’re at the top of the stairs; Sir Godric offers his arm. “I liked your honesty.”

Lyris hesitates, then takes Sir Godric’s arm. The touch is steadying, unsteadying, even through the layers of sleeve. If it’s _honesty_ he wants—

“Then I’d prefer Lyris Ren,” he corrects softly. “I haven’t gotten used to hearing the title first.”

“Lyris Ren,” Sir Godric repeats. His voice seems lower than before. It rumbles through Lyris’s bones.

They leave the guards at the door.

Sir Godric’s chambers are not what Lyris would expect from a Kalliad duke—yet, he supposes, exactly what he would expect from the man whose arm he still holds. The furnishings are simple, warm, serviceable. He should pay more attention to them, but as Sir Godric leads him through the sitting room, the work room, the bedroom, it is all he can do to keep hold of conversation.

He lets go so Sir Godric can unlatch the balcony door, and when they step outside, it is clear the sunset was no mere pretext. The sky lights up pink and yellow and deep edges of purple; the clouds are a river of lavender and gold across the horizon. The Shansan River is a stream of dragonfire rolling past the city, into the deepening fields and forest.

Lyris remembers his second night in Kallia. He met Sir Godric in darkness, overlooking the gardens; now, they are awash in gold, and they overlook the entire world.

He braces against the stone and iron railing and looks over his shoulder. “I meant what I said, my lord. I’m not here to dally.”

Sir Godric is at his back, warm fingers tracing his temple, then dropping to his chin. He nudges, and Lyris moves with the touch as if pulled by a string—he turns, back against the iron, and he has one hand clutching the railing and the other resting, tentatively, on Sir Godric’s chest. The last sunbeams dazzle in his hair, in his every eyelash, and his breath is warm on Lyris’s lips.

“Nor am I,” Godric says, and kisses him.

If his breath was warm, this is warmer. Lyris soars with it. Cups his hand around Godric’s neck and tangles his fingers in the roots of the braid and holds him in place, to steady them both.

They kiss until the light has fallen, and after.

⇼

On the first day of winter, the air is crisp and cold and still, like the world is holding its breath. When Nelory brings in his breakfast, the usual pile of letters rest on the tray. He thanks her, and plucks the first one from the pile.

It is far from the first letter from home he’s received, but it is the only one he’s received in a crisp, unbent envelope, with an unmarked seal.

Lyris’s stomach twists. The letter was opened, and then resealed. The Kallians want him to know it.

He recognizes the handwriting well: Alia Taren’s secretary’s. The news is ordinary, but the letter closes: _It is a mercy you will miss our Edisan winter. Winterfest will be lovely, but the mountains cold._

The parchment flutters. He thinks it is a breeze from the open window, until he realizes his hand is shaking. He sets down the letter, and presses his fingertips into the edge. _Mercy,_ he reads again. _Cold._

⇼

Lyris wakes the next morning to a thunderclap of wings, and shouting. He stumbles from bed and to the window. He fumbles at the latch, then throws open the clouded glass to see a red wyvern dropping into the courtyard.

Grooms and guards have all fled to the walls, out of wing-range. The wyvern touches down more lightly than Lyris would have thought possible. It crouches on its great haunches, and then folds its wings along its arms, and bends down. 

As soon as they’re still, the rider practically throws himself from the wyvern’s back. As he races towards the palace, Lyris notes the dark blue and red livery, the arrow crest sewn across his chest and back. Kosma’s colors. This rider has flown all the way from the Faian border.

There are black scorch marks along the wyvern’s red flank.

Lyris clutches the windowsill. His mind is blank and empty, save for the irrefutable facts: his queen had a Faian father, and a Faian consort. If the Kalliad States are at war with the Fanes, they’re at war with Edis as well. 

He considers burning his correspondence, but there is no use. There’s nothing secret in it, and he’s sure Queen Hesper knows its contents already. Instead, he takes the time to dress in his favorite clothes. His Edisan formal suit—tight gray jacket with the pale gray lace of his shirtsleeves spilling from the cuffs. Fawn breeches, and his sturdier, more comfortable boots. He brushes his hair, and decides he lacks time to properly tie it back, so leaves it loose to his shoulders. He fastens drops of amber in his earlobes. He has only just tugged on the pale gray gloves when there is a hammering at his door.

He hears Denis in the outer room scrambling to answer the door, and then a flurry of rough voices. Lyris tugs his gloves in place, flexes his fingers in the smooth silk, and stands in the middle of his bedchamber.

The door opens; in spill Denis, his face pinched with exhaustion and confusion, and three armored guardsmen, and at their head, Sir Godric. The Duke of Flamesreach is lightly armored, his breastplate emblazoned with his shadow wyvern. Gone is his smile.

Lyris is petty enough to seize the first word. “Fair morning, Your Grace.”

He almost regrets Sir Godric’s flinch, but he needs the formality. It is _his_ armor. 

“I come on Her Majesty’s behalf,” Sir Godric says.

He proffers a letter, and the room is still and silent. Lyris realizes everyone expects him to cross the room—all five steps—and take it. He realizes also, he will shake if he moves. So he says, “Denis, if you please.”

Denis looks relieved for the order, and takes the letter from Sir Godric’s hand. He bows deeply to him, and then deeply again as he hands it to Lyris. 

Lyris unrolls the letter, and as he reads, Sir Godric speaks. “Queen Hesper has commanded your post be transferred out of the capital. She thanks you for your service, and has commanded that I escort you and your retinue to your new post at Flamesreach.”

Lyris continues reading through the letter, though it says little else. It is faultlessly polite. It makes no mention that there is no use for a diplomat in distant Flamesreach, where there is no court.

He is relieved to find himself calm and cold. There is no fluttering in his stomach at the sight of Sir Godric’s sun-kissed skin. 

“Thank you for the notice, Your Grace.” He rolls the letter back up, and hands it to Denis. “I have a request, at Her Majesty’s forbearance.”

“What is it?”

“I wish to dismiss my aides,” Lyris says. “I would ask Her Majesty to guarantee their safe passage to the Edisan border.”

Sir Godric opens his mouth, but is silent. Lyris has caught him by surprise. The three guards stare too, and it’s Denis who speaks first.

“And leave you alone with them?” The man looks nearly white under his beard. He doesn’t even glance at the guards shifting towards him. “Send Nelory back. She’s still got family on the other side.”

Lyris feels a tightness in his chest ease. “If you’re sure.”

Denis shrugs. “The climate agrees with me.”

“Thank you,” Lyris says. He turns to Sir Godric. “Then I ask safe passage for Nelory Dasa.”

Sir Godric nods tightly. “I’ll convey the request, and if Her Majesty wills it, I’ll send my own men to escort her.”

It is meant as a kindness, not a threat, Lyris tells himself. He fixes his gaze at a point just above Sir Godric’s broad shoulder.

“Thank you,” he says yet again. It is his sword and shield; every time he says it, he sees the flinch in Godric’s eyes.

⇼

Flamesreach is a week’s ride away by horse, and a day’s ride by wyvern. Lyris and Sir Godric are to travel by wyvern, while the duke’s retinue and Denis follow by horse, along with the luggage. When one of Sir Godric’s guardsmen expresses concern for his lord’s leg, Sir Godric cuts him off with a curt, “Her Majesty said with no delay.”

At the rookery tackroom, Lyris swaps out his silk gloves for leather. A groom outfits him in a spare harness, before Sir Godric brushes her aside to make the final adjustments himself. His knuckles linger at the buckles across Lyris’s chest. He tugs and tests the straps around his thighs.

Lyris flushes, and endeavors to ignore the gentle hands at his hips. “Who has declared already?” he asks quietly. “I’ve heard only bits and pieces.”

Sir Godric tests the thick stomach strap once again, and tightens it one more notch, so it’s snug around his waist. “The Fanes raided a Kalliad town last night, under the oak and star flag. Queen Hesper has made her declaration against the Fanes and any ally that joins them. If Edis is among them, we haven’t yet heard.”

“So my imprisonment is preemptive.” He can’t fault the logic in it—Edis Taren’s declaration is certainly forthcoming. Foreign eyes are dangerous when troop movements begin in the capital, and Queen Hesper’s caution is renowned. Perhaps if he’d built a better relationship over the past several months, or been more solicitous during negotiations, or—

The fear flickering behind his ribs has nothing to do with logic.

Nor does the gray grimness in Sir Godric’s face. He pulls a leather helm from the wall rack. “I swear by my shield, I’ll do all in my power to make your stay at Flamesreach comfortable.”

When Sir Godric reaches to brush the hair from his temple, Lyris shies away. He takes the helm, and puts it on himself. He’s grateful for the dark glass visor to partly obscure his face.

Larkin is already harnessed when they exit into the rookery’s back courtyard—a stretch of hard ground to launch from. Her dark scales gleam in the sunlight, and her belly is a paler silver. The saddle sits just behind her wings, and the rugged leather straps are strangely mundane around her chest and neck. 

She bends down, and while Lyris sees loops in the harness that might be used as footholds to climb, two grooms drag over a mounting block. Even with the straps and steps, it seems there’s no graceful way to mount a wyvern; Lyris watches Sir Godric swing up, then follows as best he can.

He tries to quell his nerves by equating it to mounting a horse, but the analogy is tenuous. Larkin’s back is broader, for one, and Lyris is sure he’ll be in agony by day’s end. And the _heat_ —he had worried he was underdressed for the flight, but staying warm won’t be a problem. Sir Godric’s feet and arms slide into stirrups and straps that he can push and pull to signal to Larkin as they fly, but all Lyris will do is ride behind him.

He’s been trying not to think of the logistics, but it’s impossible once he’s up in the double saddle. They’re lying forward more than sitting, and he has to fit right behind Sir Godric, pressed flush against his back, with his thighs pressed up behind his. The proximity is maddening. The shifting closeness, the warm leather smell—

Lyris wishes he hated it.

The grooms climb up on either side to strap them both in. Their legs are secured to the saddle, and Lyris’s waist-belt hooks onto Sir Godric’s. Then the grooms jump down pull the mounting block away. 

“Where should I put my hands, my lord?” Lyris asks.

Sir Godric looks over his shoulder. His eyes are obscured by the glass. “Either on the saddle in front of me, or grab onto my waist-strap.”

Lyris fumbles at the front edge of the saddle and finds the handles to grip.

Sir Godric calls out, and the guards and grooms scatter. Larkin shifts beneath them, her great muscles coiling in preparation. Lyris tightens his grip, presses his helmed forehead between Sir Godric’s shoulder, and tries to breathe instead of panic.

“Fly,” Sir Godric shouts. The syllable has barely left his lips when Larkin surges upwards.

Lyris would have screamed, had he the breath for it. Despite all preparation, the force and vertigo takes him by surprise, and it’s all he can do to screw his eyes shut and cling to the saddle. Everything’s moving—the arch of Larkin’s spine, Sir Godric rocking back against him, the air itself displaced again and again by the beating wings. His legs jerk against the straps.

Eventually, the sickening rise steadies into a gentler glide. Lyris is able to uncramp his hands from the saddle and adjust his grip. He turns his head, and looks down. Mostly he sees the spread of Larkin’s wing, scales and sinews rippling as she glides, but when she beats downward, every so often, he sees all of Kallia spread below them. Forests and fields laced with rivers and roads, and for all the maps and atlases he studied, he can name none of them.

“There’s something you should know.” Sir Godric’s voice is loud over the wind, and as rigid as his spine against Lyris’s chest. “When you first arrived, my queen suggested I befriend you.”

Lyris grits his teeth, and wishes he were anywhere else. He knew it was political, with his head and heart. But it is unkind of Sir Godric to say so in this moment. “Befriend,” he spits. “All of this—”

“I refused her,” Sir Godric says. “It’s the only time I ever have.”

“Oh,” Lyris breathes. The sound is lost in the next lurching downbeat of Larkin’s wings.

“I’ve no doubt it’s why she’s sending me back to Flamesreach. I’m not as useful at court as she had hoped.”

Lyris had not considered this might be exile for them both. He, tentatively, releases his right hand’s grip on the saddle, and splays his fingers across Godric’s chest. After a moment, he feels him shift, and a broader hand presses over his own.

There are ramifications, there, and he’s certain they are vital, but he is too exhausted to explore them. Politics can wait until they’ve landed at Flamesreach. For now, he’ll just cling to Godric’s waist, and a glimmer of truth, as they pass over the world below.


End file.
